Above the Surface
by Foolscapping
Summary: Takes place during Season 8, before the Trials. Sam always feels like he's drowning, and Dean just wishes he could speak up. Sometimes it's more literal than it should be. Warnings for suicidal thoughts, violence, and cursing.


**Genre: **Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Drama  
**Pairing: **Gen.  
**Rating:** Teen+, Maybe Mature?  
**Word Count: **3,100+  
**Warning: **Drowning, mentions of suicidal thoughts, a little cursing.

For Triple Play at _ohsam_ at _livejournal_, for one of the prompts! Takes place during Season 8, before the Trials. Sam always feels like he's drowning, and Dean just wishes he could speak up. Sometimes it's more literal than it should be.

* * *

Things didn't go particularly wrong until the blade the demon had wrenched out of Dean's grasp sliced clean across the hunter's chest, over his collarbone.

It was a hunt to unwind, build up their tolerance of each other all over again before something else tore it down; lately, it seemed like fighting was just the natural way of things. Sam was sick of it, but he spoke as angrily as Dean did against it, and the cycle would continue. A cycle of blame over this, blame over that, mostly stemming from Dean's unfortified mouth — and Sam hated it. Sam hated that he couldn't find the courage to tell his brother the truth about those months after Castiel and Dean had 'died'; hated that he couldn't admit to Dean how broken and indispensable he was, how he would have likely just rotted away in the driver's seat if he hadn't seen that cliff, thought about death, about a hunter's funeral with the Impala burning at the bottom of the gorge and him inside it, blank-eyed and bloody. He couldn't tell Dean that a _dog _had saved his life, a dog that he couldn't just let bleed out on the outskirts of a forest. He couldn't explain to Dean that Benny terrified him, made him immediately think of 'Sam and Ruby' — how the lies began, the sneaking away, the danger of associating with a dangerous creature that, in the end, just wanted to use you for something entirely criminal, entirely horrible. He couldn't tell Dean that Benny was just a distant reminder of how his faith in vampires was broken after Lenore, after the Alpha, after Gordon, and then Sam's failure as a brother when he'd been soulless.

And most of all, Sam couldn't find the words to just sit down and tell Dean that, once upon a time, Sammy _was _that blood-sucking freak. The one that broke everything apart with just one clench of his fist.

No, Sam couldn't tell Dean any of his failures. He couldn't tell him that, as much as Sam wanted to prove otherwise, something was seriously _broken _in his head and nothing would ever, ever repair it. Sam could never let Dean know that sometimes he feels Lucifer's fingers clench in his hair, even after Castiel had absorbed his hellfire. He couldn't let him know that when he was curled up broken next to the also-broken Amelia, he would sob harshly and look ugly in her presence, and she'd rub his back and look so lost, because she, too, had been here — but had never comforted someone else, being the one needing comfort. But they tried; god, they tried. Through the bitterness and sarcasm and walls she'd put up, Amelia would kiss him in a way that wasn't even sexual. Wasn't anything at all romantic. That's not what they needed. That's not what got them through the night. Instead, she kissed him like it could fix him.

And for a while, it worked.

And then everything crumbled apart, and he left his dog and the woman who kissed him so carefully, found a brother who was haunted with betrayal by his brother, failed a young, innocent man who just wanted to finish college and be something special, just like Sam had wanted to decades and decades and decades ago. Lately, he's been failing everyone. _Lately_? No, for all his life. Sam was drowning in it, kicking and screaming and hoping he could find purchase among the jagged rocks at the riverbank, and it seemed for every ledge he grasped, he'd find it crumbling away already. There among the reeds, he'd find _another _tired, hurt stare by a brother who had needed Sam: Sam, who wasn't there when it mattered most. It'd be better to just _let go_, Sam thinks on some nights. But only some. Most other nights he puts on a game face and remembers he's a Winchester.

And soon, they found something good. They found a bunker, found their own rooms, found a case. Kevin could figure out how to close the gates of Hell, and then... then things would be easier. Then he could breathe.

It was a normal case. And then the demons ambushed them. And then Dean was slashed across the chest.

Sam had taken an ugly fall and he could tell his leg was at least broken in one place; suppose that's what happens when you're thrown off a high boulder and slam limb-first into a far too shallow river's edge.

He lays there with his cheek pressed in water that barely laps at his nose, mouth opened in pained surprise as it fills and unfills with the motion of the tide. When it feels like the pain has ebbed, shoved down into some weird pit he's devised his entire life for pain, he drags himself to his knees and crawls back toward dry land; he's not sure if he can make it up the embankment, but he has to _try_, because Dean was bleeding up at the top of the trail and Sam's not so sure he can hear a struggle anymore beyond the splashing water icing over his hands. Dean could be dead — and all for a stupid case concerning demons. It's always demons that take, take, _take_. Demons and Leviathans and Psychic Children and Angels — and he's so _tired_, so sick of the hunt, of the roiling in his stomach every time Dean falls out of view _again, _gets dragged to the ground _again, _gets put back on a ventilator _again_, dies, dies, dies. At the Mystery Spot, in the Cage, in Sam's nightmares, always something, always death.

He hates this life. He wishes he could curl up in bed and sleep it all off, maybe pretend Riot was curled against his ankle at the foot of his bed.

Dean could maybe never understand, Sam thinks, because Dean's gonna _die _if he doesn't move fast.

"_Dean_! Jesus — Dean, where — ?!"

And then suddenly (miraculously) , Dean appears on the ledge of the trail and looks down at Sam, and then scans the waters as if checking for any other signs of life. Sam wants to breathe in relief, because Dean's there, and if he's there then he's not _dead_, and that's what matters — but then Dean _looks _at him, _really _looks at him. And Sam realizes when he sees the shallow cut across Dean's chest — sees through the cloth it had pierced his anti-possession tattoo — that 'Dean' wasn't Dean anymore.

The curling smirk on Dean's face didn't particularly change that opinion.

Dean was possessed.

Sam scrambles in the water, looking for the demon-killing knife, freezing when he realizes that it would kill the host in the process (no way, no good, can't do it). All the while, Dean calmly slides down the embankment, approaches in no time at all, and kicks Sam hard in the sternum; he collapses backward with a ragged sound, hair wetted and jacket heavy on his frame as he struggles to get up and move, do _something. _Dean's mental captor just shakes his head like speaking isn't worth the effort and grabs Sam by the collar of his button-up shirt with a suddenly overwhelming grip. He's sloshing through the current and dragging him further in against his will. Sam knows where this is going; Sam's struggles persist anyway, and he battles with all the strength in his strong arms, his legs kicking up cool sprays of river water, one bone broken and screaming at the protest. No, no _no_, not like this. How could he tell Dean anything if _this _happens? Not now, not after they've been working on it, slowly, surely, fixing an old bond that had stood a test of time and patience (and mistakes, so many mistakes).

But the demon's so _strong_.

Sam looks desperately at Dean's face. He studies the familiar features, looks deep into vivid green eyes, and isn't sure if he sees a demon or just Dean.

_"You left me to die for a girl?!"_

It's preposterous, how quiet the struggle is.

Sam grunts and strains to be freed, and the water rushes around their half-submerged bodies. No words, no excuses, no pleading for Dean to fight it. He just grips Dean's sleeve tight in his fingers like he's two-years-old and afraid of the dark, and then with a completely blank expression, the demon forces Sam beneath the swirling rapid water beneath them. He tries to fight it; he really does. His arms frantically grab at clothing and skin, palms slicking with the blood from Dean's chest, and under the surface Sam finally just _screams _against it all: screaming in misery, screaming for salvation, screaming for a chance to fix things, screaming for Dean's help. All he finds is, once again, like always, the sensation that he's drowning. He screams air until his mind is graying over and his fighting starts to slow down.

It's so hard, to keep trying. To keep battling the current while he's trying to find that fucking handhold to grab onto. In the end, he just cries out mutely for Dean, because he supposes in the end, it's all he ever seems to do: scream for his brother and fail him, time after time. The rippling colors of his last remaining family dims until his vision is black and his lungs stop bothering. His heart figures it should probably stop too, but not before it breaks into small, lonely pieces.

* * *

Dean wanted his brother to be happy.

It was hard to say what he wanted to say, most of the time. Before Purgatory and after, he'd never been good at talking, not like Sam was. It was just easier to hit the bottle and then offer his little brother one, too; he's not even sure where it started. Back when Sam was in diapers and needed his milk? Back when Sam was missing a dead girlfriend, needing a beer and a hearty slap on the chest? Back when there was dead silence and a pair of shot glasses after Lucifer rose, because talking about what Sam had done to the world (and to him) was too painful? He's not sure. But it was just... easier to not say anything at all. In a way, it was their gift and their curse. They understood plenty without words. But sometimes words really fucking mattered and they never came out when they were supposed to.

Like right now, as Dean's watching through his own eyes as Sam's torso and head go under the river. Words don't form, and he wants them to. He wants to scream and tell Sam to fight harder, stop letting him win, stop _dying_. He wanted Sam alive more than anything else — he'd take Sam alive and awkward around him for the rest of their lives, as long as he had him around period. Sure, he was angry, pissed that Sam abandoned him after Dean had put so much fucking faith in his kid brother to come through. But driving gave him time to think. Driving made him think too _much_. And maybe he was just hurt that Sam didn't even check for a metaphorical pulse. Fuck it, whatever, the silence'll sort it all out. The silence will put miles between their problems and make them functional. Dean would learn to except this, too, just like he accepted Sam's blood-sucking, or his soullessness, or how he'd given up when the Devil was raining on his parade in his head — things that he understood, over time. He saw where Sam's world cracked down the middle, saw how he came to those places. Dean would have probably ended up not so good either.

This one, though... Maybe Dean was just hurt at how quickly Sam moved on with his life.

Why shouldn't he, though? A small voice keeps telling him that, and he bats it away like it's nothing. Why shouldn't he? Visions and being tainted by Azazel, losing mom and Dad and Jess and everyone else under the sun, being strung out on demon blood while Ruby rode him right into the ground, being torn apart by two angry archangels for far too long to count, hallucinating until he was broken enough to find _death _as the obvious solution — maybe Sam deserved to just let it all go and get a chick, a dog, a house. Maybe...

He wishes he could just scream it all out — every insecurity and feeling of betrayal, explain himself through his heart instead of his biting retorts, because as much as he liked to think otherwise, Dean's heart was always heavy, and he wanted nothing more than to use the damn thing. But Purgatory was _hard_, and Sam was _here_, probably having cute barbecues and kissing his girl on the cheek. And fuck, it's not fair to pretend that was _wrong_, but Dean just wanted to find security when every horrible creature out there was out for his head.

He stares down as he holds Sam's thrashing figure in the waist-deep waters.

He feels his body move against his will while he holds Sam under with a vice grip.

He feels Sam's long fingers clasping wildly at his sleeves, a wordless plea for protection that Dean can't give him.

It's so fucking quiet out here. Sam's body is the only thing making sound, fighting to live. He _wants _to live._ It ends bloody or sad, though, Sammy._

But it shouldn't end like this. There's too much he needs to learn how to say, and too much for Sam to say back at him. It shouldn't end like this, because the number one rule is always to look out for Sam. Dad never had to say that.

But now he's watching Sam's fingers uncurl from his jacket. His arms slide away and then just... float, limp and lifeless in the waters.

"No — " Is the choked noise, struggling to control his mouth. "No, no —"

Sam's hands are just floating there. There's nothing left in them. Sam isn't moving. Sam's cold and quiet beneath the waters.

_Nononononono_.

"No!" he screams, and it's like nails in his throat. His eyes burn and he screams long and angry and hard, fighting to return to his own senses, even as the demon works in vain to keep him caged in his own consciousness. Dean just keeps yelling on the inside while he claws, tears, ascends, as his white-knuckled fists shake around Sam's collar. Sam's throat rises from the water, gleaming and without a pulse, no longer transporting vital air into his chest. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus —" he suddenly manages. God, no, no. He's not _moving_, he's not _breathing_, he's not _anything_. "Omnis satanica potestas — omnis incursio infernalis _adversarii _— " Suddenly the demon gives up against the battle of wills, and Dean's mouth opens, wide and unrelenting, while a black plume flees into the cloudless sky. And then Dean's gasping and wheezing and crying so hard it almost surprises him with how hard his body shakes, because when he pulls Sam so_easily _from the water into his arms, he's nothing but a pale, lolling figure against his body. He's practically translucent with death and his hair is sticking to his face and his jaw is slack, mouth puddled with river water that dribbles out freely —

"Sam, no, not like this, man, don't do this — "

— and he's dragging him from the river as quickly as he'll move, Sam's body so fucking heavy and empty and soulless, and Dean logically knows that somewhere he can't see, Sam's floating away, leaving just like that cloud of smoke. But he's leaving things unsaid, just like Dean is. He's leaving again, trying to force Dean to remain all by himself, and it's not right._ It's not right. _Dean should have protected him; he should have gained control faster. Sam's dead. Oh, god, Sam's _dead_. Sam's gone again, and Dean did it, and his long limbs aren't moving, and his heart has already surrendered under his trembling palm, and Dean runs his hand over Sam's sopping hair and feels his own soul ignite and burn hot from the cruelty of it all.

_No_.

"_Fuck you_, Sam, you're _not _doing this," he growls, and turns Sam harshly in his haste, clearing away the water that never made it to his lungs. He presses his mouth into Sam's cold, tinting lips and breathes for him, his face burning with tears that just keep coming, that never stop, and he couldn't remember the last time he choked on his own sobs like _this_;_ Sam's dead, Dean, what are you doing?_ He's dead. It's been too long. He's already too cold. _He's gone, he's dead, you fucked up, you never spoke up, he never spoke up, and now you're beating on his chest like it changes anything._

"_COME ON, SAM_!"

He tries chest compressions and forces breaths into Sam's body, fuming and heartbroken, because no matter how many battles he fights or how hardened his heart gets, nothing will fix the way it crumbles when his brother is a broken doll in front of him. The only things that would ever bring his heart back to goodness were those annoying sad eyes and dimpled grins of contentment. The quiet moments shared. Fuck everything, Sam, fuck the feelings of betrayal or the guilt or the frustrations. He just needs the baby he carried out of the fire to _breathe _again.

And Sam does.

Suddenly, like a blow to Dean's own lungs, Sam turns over and vomits. He's pale and ghostly, but he gags and coughs with the sounds of sloppy life, and Dean laughs like a madman; he'd prefer being crazy to being brother-less again. Arms fall over Sam's shoulders and he hugs him unabashedly as they tremble in the perfect spring weather. His nose is full of gross shit and his voice is all but raw as he soothes the disorientated man under his grip with back rubs. Wet and cold as they are, Dean feels Sam's hot breath melt through his shoulder and could only think,_ His soul found its way back._ He talks like he's 26 again and this is what he's willing to keep living for. "I'm so sorry, Sam, I'm so fucking sorry — christ, I'm so sorry — keep coughing, you got this, you're okay, we're okay. I got ya', I'm not going anywhere. Nothing else matters, okay? None of the other shit matters, just keep breathing." And grown-up Sam moans low like a sick child.

Dean can't hear it under his own choked, relieved reassurances, but Sam cries and laughs with him while he finds purchase at last, grabbing Dean by the arms. This time, though, he's safe above the surface.


End file.
